


Clear Eyes, Full Hearts

by Lavendergaia



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-23
Updated: 2016-06-23
Packaged: 2018-07-16 22:01:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7286332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lavendergaia/pseuds/Lavendergaia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fitz is fine riding the bench. He doesn't ever actually expect to play on the team in any real capacity and he's more than okay with that.</p>
<p>But in football and in life, Friday night has a way of changing everything when you least expect it. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>A Friday Night Lights AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clear Eyes, Full Hearts

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to ardentaislinn for the beta!! <3

When Grant Ward gets carted off the field and into an ambulance, Fitz is pretty sure he’s going to piss himself.

Ward is an asshole, everyone knows he’s an asshole, but he’s the best quarterback in the state, maybe the best high school quarterback in the country. He’s the leader of this team. He’s the one who’s supposed to get them to State.

But suddenly Ward’s blown something, maybe everything, and the cheerleaders are crying and his family are in the ambulance with him and Coach Coulson is shoving Fitz’s helmet into his hands and pushing him out onto the field.

Fitz is just the backup quarterback. He only warms up because he  _ has _ to. Because Hunter needs someone to practice catching with.

This is going to be a shitshow.

Fitz’s hands are literally shaking as he tries to clip on his helmet. He doesn’t even realize he didn’t bring a football until Coach Coulson tosses one to him. It fumbles in his grip and he can feel every eye in the stadium on him. Shame burns across his face. He knows his mum is out there, knows she’s probably bouncing in excitement that he’s finally getting to play—he’d told her not to get her hopes up thinking that it would happen any time this year or before graduation or before a meteorite hit the earth and sent it plunging into the next ice age.

Being wrong is the worst.

The team is huddled around him, staring at him, and Fitz twists nervously under their gaze. “Uh…um…look…”

“What’s the play?” Keebo says and Fitz’s stomach drops.

“Uh.”

Von Strucker, who is only a freshman but still hits people like he’s made of steel, rolls his eyes. “What are we fucking doing, Fitz?”

“Watch your fucking mouth,” Hunter says. He nudges Fitz’s side in a way that Fitz thinks is meant to be comforting. It almost is, except Fitz is pretty sure that as good of a wide receiver as Hunter is, he would easily ignore the football to start a fight if it came to the team giving Fitz shit. Hunter mostly just likes to start fights.

Fitz looks back over at Coulson and can’t help but let his eyes fall over the stands. Their whispers are a dull roar to his ears and all of their faces sort of blend together, a muted palate of worry and suspicion and distrust. 

Only one thing stands out to him: a few rows above the field is Coulson’s daughter Jemma. Fitz sits behind her in pre-calc and AP chem and honors English and Fitz thinks he could find her anywhere. Her face is the picture of seriousness, like when Weaver gives them a pop quiz and she’s determined to get all of the extra credit points, and he lets himself sink into her brown eyes for just a moment until Trip’s comforting hand on his back brings him back to the present.

“37 Hook right,” Fitz mumbles. He can’t remember what Coulson said, everything a mess of words and chants and sirens in his mind. 

“You’re going to  _ throw _ it?” Von Strucker spits, his words like venom.

Hunter elbows him hard. “Shut it! Break on three,” he says, looking around the huddle, his words a warning as much as a call to come together. When the huddle breaks and everyone moves to their positions, Hunter lingers next to Fitz’s side. “Look,” he mutters. “Just throw the ball. I’ll catch it.”

Nodding, Fitz assumes his position, hands prepped for the ball. The words of the cadence slip his mind for a second before he remembers what to call out. A thousand years seem to pass between the snap and feeling the hard leather beneath his fingers and his hands immediately tighten around it as he steps back. Hunter somehow already seems to be halfway across the field. He only has three breaths, he knows, before he has to let the ball fly, but he finds he can’t breathe at all, staring across the field at moving bodies, people hitting each other, hitting the ground. The noise is deafening and cacophonous and he wastes one breath wondering  _ god, I hope Ward is okay no he’s not okay I saw his leg he’s never going to be okay _ .

Mack blocks a defender right in front of him as Fitz steps into the throw and the ball…well, it doesn’t sail. It barely makes it halfway towards its intended target and it would have been picked up by a defender if Trip hadn’t been paying attention, making it an incomplete pass instead of an interception. 

The referee’s whistle can barely be heard over the boos from the crowd but somehow he can hear Coulson above everything. Jogging over to his coach expecting an earful, Fitz avoids his gaze—Coulson doesn’t often get mad, but his paternalistic disappointment is so much worse. “Look, Fitz, we’re up by 20, we just need to run out the clock,” Coulson says, putting his hands on Fitz’s shoulders. “We all just want to go make sure Ward is okay, but let’s not forfeit this game he worked so hard on.”

Nodding, Fitz tries to let the words sink in. Just pass the ball, a nice hand off to Hunter, let him run the ball. As he heads back to the team, there’s a rumble of agreement and they all get into place. Fitz knows exactly where Hunter is, directly off to his side, and he tries to keep him in the back of his mind as the ball is snapped to him. As per his training, he reads the field immediately, trying to figure out if Hunter has too many defenders on him, if he should try for Trip instead.

He’s on the ground before he can even make a decision. 

The turf is hard beneath his back and the world spins for a minute as he tries to get his bearings. He thinks it might be nice if his lungs remember how to breathe, but before they even manage that, Mack is grabbing his arm and hauling him to his feet. “You okay, Turbo? Sorry, guy got around my side.”

He nods, then regrets that, his head still spinning. There isn’t more than a minute to catch his breath—he knows he has to get to the next play, but the noise from the crowd roars in his ears, the catcalls and jeers. For just a moment, he wishes he were a different person, a spectator of the complete disaster that is his life at that moment.

Off to the side, Coulson calls another timeout, their last of the game. He orders them to his side, reminding them of how little time there was, how Ward will put all of their asses in the hospital with him if they blow his perfect season. Fitz barely hears any of it. The words pass through him and all he can focus on is the adrenaline pounding in his ears.

Risking a glance up to the stands, he can make out the disapproving, judgmental glares of the crowd. Every scowl, every unfriendly glance is like hitting the turf again, the shock compounding down his spine. Even worse is the look on his mum’s face, equally worried and hopeful. 

He hates disappointing her the most.

As both a reprieve and another layer of torture, he finds himself searching for Jemma again. This time, to his bafflement, she’s already looking at him. Her brown eyes widen in surprise when their gazes lock, but her face softens into a smile. It’s not pity, as he expects—there’s a gentle compassion there, and pride, and an intelligence that no distance can hide. Every moment he stares at her, her smile widens and before he knows it, she’s clapping and cheering. Next to her, her best friend—Daisy, Fitz knows, because he knows everything about Jemma—does the same, getting to her feet to cheer on the team. Their combined joy raises above the rest of the crowd and he’s so mesmerized that he doesn’t hear Coach Coulson dismissing the team until Trip takes his arm and starts dragging him to the field. 

“357 play right on two,” Fitz says firmly, and the rest of the team just  _ stops _ . He pushes past them, head held higher than he’s actually feeling. Keebo and Von Strucker look like they’re about to tackle him themselves and even Hunter and Mack look wary.

“Look, mate,” Hunter says slowly, hand twisting anxiously over the guard of his helmet. “Coach said…”

“I’m the quarterback and I’m throwing the ball,” Fitz says. Even as he keeps his voice low, his tone is stronger and surer than he thinks he’s ever heard it. “You gonna catch it?”

Hunter nods without hesitation. They linger there for another second before Trip says, “Alright, y’all, you heard the man. Let’s go win this game.”

As Fitz takes his position on the field, Keebo grunts, “When Ward gets back, he’s going to end you.”

Fitz wants to make some sort of witty retort, but he’s fairly certain even with both arms and legs broken, Ward could still kill him. Instead, he straps on his helmet and focuses on the game ahead of him.

This time, when the ball arrives in his hands, he feels grounded—feet planted, grip steady. He times his breaths to his heartbeat and after a quick check that Hunter has started his run, quicker than any defender, he fakes the handoff to Trip. As Trip heads past the line of scrimmage, fighting off defenders, Fitz takes two steps back, pumps once, and releases the ball.

He can’t breathe as the football soars through the air. It goes against every scientific principle he knows, but Fitz can swear that time holds for a moment, that seconds stretch to minutes, that the ball is suspended long enough for him to calculate the arc and momentum.

Then it lands in Hunter’s arms and he runs across into the endzone and it’s all over.

Fitz vaguely understands that the crowd is going crazy—there’s screaming and chanting and people on their feet. All he can sense is the rush of relief and adrenaline that consumes his brain. 

Mack snaps him out of it when he hugs Fitz so hard, Fitz is literally lifted off the ground. The rest of the offensive line—aside from Hunter, who is still celebrating in the endzone—are on top of him, patting him in the back and shouting their encouragement. His feet move before he knows what’s happening and suddenly he’s back on the sidelines.

Coach Coulson shakes his head in exasperation, but his eyes shine with fierce pride—the kind that Fitz has always wanted to see directed at him. After Fitz pulls his helmet off, Coulson places his hands on Fitz’s shoulders and looks him dead in the eye. “Good job, Fitz.”

Fitz had braced himself for a scolding, and the steel in his spine melts away at the words. “Th-thanks, sir!”

He feels what it must be like to be hit by a wrecking ball as Hunter bounds into him, giving him a heavy hug and then dragging him over to the bench. Hunter’s still talking a mile a minute about how he knew Fitz was good and how those other guys can go fuck themselves. As Trip hands him a bottle of Gatorade with a wink, Fitz just smiles. 

The rest of the game passes by in a blur. Despite the soreness in his arms and back, he can’t quite settle in the new reality of his life. As the game clock clicks to zero, their side of the stadium is all celebration. For what seems like the first time in an hour, Fitz breathes. He hasn’t ruined everything. He hasn’t destroyed their season. He hasn’t completely messed up his life.

His mother gets out of the stands faster than he’s ever seen her move before, hugging him with a tightness that surprises him. The warmth and familiarity of her arms settles him back into his skin and he holds her for a long time as she tells him how  _ proud _ she is of him. When she finally lets go, it’s only to walk over to Coach Coulson and tell him animatedly how grateful she is for giving him a chance.

Tucked next to her father, not three feet away from where Fitz’s feet are suddenly planted to the ground, is Jemma. She winks at him, easing herself around Fitz’s mum to come stand next to him. Before Fitz even realizes what’s happening, Jemma  _ hugs  _ him. “Congratulations!” she says into his ear. She smells like mint. “I knew you could do it.”

One of his hands comes to rest on her back and though the hug only lasts for a few seconds, the pressure of her body against his seems to linger. He’s suddenly aware of how he must look—how he must  _ smell _ —and the redness in his cheeks deepens. “Thanks. You were—I’m—thanks.”

She continues to smile at him but a nod from Coulson catches his eye. “I’ve got some stuff to get together, and then we’re going to see Ward,” he says. He gestures to Fitz. “Ride with us.”

It’s not really a request and Fitz says goodbye to his mother before heading off to the locker room. His teammates that are still there and not on their way to the hospital congratulate him again, snapping him with their towels in a way that’s friendly for once, instead of laced with ridicule. He takes what is possibly the longest shower he’s ever taken in his life, letting the hot spray of the water soak into his skin and revive him.

He’s the last one to leave the locker room, taking time to apply three coats of deodorant—just in case. As he shoulders his bag and pushes through the locker room back out onto the field, Jemma is right there. She’s leaning against the side of the building, face illuminated by her tablet. Fitz can’t hide his smile; of course Jemma would bring something to read, something to study from, to her father’s football game.

The door closing behind him alerts her to his presence and she perks up. “Oh, hi,” she says, stuffing the tablet into her purse. “Dad’s just answering some questions and calls in his office, I said I’d come get you and show you to the car.”

He raises his eyebrows at her. “I get to ride in Coach’s convertible?”

Laughing, she shakes her head. “Sorry. Lola doesn’t come out on game days—too much stuff to carry.” 

They fall into step as she leads him to the teacher parking lot on the other side of the field. “So what were you reading?” he said, hoping she didn’t see his immediate wince. Way to be nosy  _ and _ dull all at once.

“Research. I’m doing a special project for Dr. Weaver.”

Quirking a smile at her, he said, “Do you need more extra credit? Is 100% not good enough?”

Her laugh is light and full of humor. “It’s not necessarily for extra credit—although maybe it should be, I know you’re trying to fight me for that valedictorian slot,” she says, nudging him playfully in the side. When he just shrugs good-naturedly, she says, “No, I’m actually trying out for this really special fellowship this summer. It’s with the CDC! There’s only one slot available, and Dr. Weaver said that this project should push my application over the top.”

Fitz is good at chemistry, but he’s never really  _ liked _ it until he listened to Jemma talk about it. She tells him the extent of her project and about a few similar fellowships that he could try. “I know you prefer physics,” she says and it startles him because he didn’t know that she knew anything about him. “In fact, I was talking to Dr. Weaver, and she said that they’re going to try to put AP Physics in the curriculum next year. I said that she should fight for it, even if it’s just the two of us in the class.”

“Thank you,” he says, the words falling out of his mouth before he could catch them.

“Oh, it’s no problem,” she says as they arrive to the gate that leads to the parking lot. She navigates the closure with ease. “I certainly want all the AP credits I can get and physics isn’t my strongest suit, but I’m sure you’ll help me if I need it.”

“For tonight,” he spits out and she stops with her hand on the gate, turning around and looking at him in confusion. Realizing he has to say more, say anything, he rambles, “Tonight, I was…everything was going horribly and you were…I saw you supporting me and it meant a lot.” He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly, running his hand up through his still damp hair. “You helped get me through it.”

The surprise on her face fades, replaced by a pleased smile. In the dim streetlights, he thinks he almost sees her blush. “Oh, Fitz, it’s nothing.” Jemma places her hand on his shoulder and his heartbeat races. “My dad always talks about how good you are, how great you could be if given a chance. And you’re so smart and kind and—” she cuts herself off and bites her bottom lip. “You deserve all the support.”

His ribcage starts to hurt as his heart pounds against it. Adrenaline and instinct have returned to completely take over his logical higher brain processes—and that’s the only excuse he has for the next thing he does. Holding his breath, Fitz leans down and kisses her. He means it to be soft and tender, for her to know he thinks she’s precious. She kisses him back harder, hand tightening on his shoulder as she leans up on her toes to press her lips deeper against his.

The roar of an engine distracts them enough to pull apart. Her laugh is light and musical and this time when she pushes open the gate, she takes his hand and drags him through with her.

The sound they hear is Coach Coulson’s SUV, which is thankfully across the other end of the parking lot—much too far to have seen them in the dark, even though Fitz thinks his coach might have super sight. He climbs into the backseat while Jemma sits up in the front with her father. Cell phone stuck to his ear, Coulson nods to them as he starts to pull out of the parking lot. When he finally hangs up the phone, he shakes his head. “This is a shitshow. Sorry, sorry,” he apologizes to Jemma at her noise of indignation. He sighs, then smiles over his shoulder at Fitz. “You did good tonight, Fitz. I knew I could rely on you to step up when I needed you.”

His chest blooms with pride. “Thank you, sir.” In the rearview mirror, Jemma catches his gaze and grins, sending his heart stuttering again. “I appreciate your support.”

“Ward’s still in surgery, so it looks like you might be taking over for him for a while. Now, starting tomorrow—” Fitz does his best to listen as Coach Coulson expands over their game plan until Ward is healed, but all he can do is focus on the way Jemma’s curls fall against her shoulder. As Coulson picks up another phone call, Jemma turns around to give Fitz a smile and a wink. He swallows hard, but can’t keep from smiling back.

Sinking back into the leather of the SUV, for the first time in his life, Fitz is pretty sure he can’t lose. 


End file.
